


a lifetime to kill, a second to waste

by Fxckxxp



Category: SKAM (Italy)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Airports, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Flirting, Fluff, M/M, Meet-Cute, POV Martino Rametta, i rated this G but there's a swear word here and there, journalist Marti, pianist Nico, they're idiots, they're like in their late twenties or something
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-16
Updated: 2019-04-16
Packaged: 2020-01-15 05:08:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18491992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fxckxxp/pseuds/Fxckxxp
Summary: After a bad week for Marti, a delayed flight home to Rome actually turns out to be a blessing in disguise.





	a lifetime to kill, a second to waste

**Author's Note:**

> i probably wouldn't even be writing anymore if it wasn't for bee and her genius mind and her endless prompts and hcs that keep my brain alive. so you can thank her for this, really. luv u b 💛
> 
> this takes place in the Vienna international airport, which i've never been to. so if you're an expert with the place and the layout as i describe isn't quite right, please forgive me and remember it's an AU ;) but it WILL be helpful for you to know that the place has some [pretty cool seating,](https://46gb9l10qld536ktv928ai60-wpengine.netdna-ssl.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/09/vienna-airport-1.jpg) and it's important to the story.
> 
> enjoy!

Marti’s flight is scheduled to leave in exactly two hours and four minutes once he’s sat down — out of breath from power walking — in the last seat of terminal two, gate three. 

Which means he’s late.

By his standards, at least. Although this time he can pin it on the weather. A sudden snowfall started right when he caught the train here. 

But still. He could have checked the forecast. His promptness when it comes to traveling is half to do with the numerous leads he’s lost from missing flights as a result of crowded security lines and half to do with his strange love for people watching, uncomfortable lobby chairs, and nothing to distract himself with but expensive snacks and maybe some of his YouTube subscriptions. 

He’s not _boring,_ he’s just… established. He knows what he likes.

And the airport is a lawless place — really the _only_ place he doesn’t feel pressured to work around the clock. For many, it’s annoying — all this waiting. But for Marti it’s an oasis. A chance to clear his brain.

Which he is so ready for. He’s spent the past week here in Vienna covering an unusual story about the robbery and assault of three monks who live in the Maria Immaculata church. But the case went cold, and Marti’s running out of money. Part nasty story, part failure of an article. He’s catching a very late flight back home to Rome almost empty handed. He’d rather not think of that.

Within the hour, the terminal starts to fill up with people shedding their wet coats and scarves; he’s glad he grabbed a chair when he did, although Marti also berates himself for being “late” — he would have liked to snatch one of the seats on the bed-like loungers in the median between the gates. It’s his favorite part of waiting at the Vienna airport. But it’s okay, he still has his chair and WiFi and his headphones and YouTube and —

Shit. 

Marti usually prides himself on being prepared, but the video on his phone is interrupted by the _**LOW BATTERY:** 20% of battery remaining_ notification. And with still an hour left until boarding, he’ll be damned if this stops him from what he’s been looking forward to.

Rifling through his bag with a big sigh and a curse under his breath, it looks like he also didn’t manage to charge his portable charger. This is so unlike him; he is usually always prepared. He’ll have to find an actual outlet and use his cable charger.

But of course, the outlets in airports are never in convenient places. Vienna is the exception, but all of the nice ones on the fancy new middle seats are occupied by chargers or elbows. He’ll have to resort to the few on the base of the loungers in the median, which means he has to sit on the floor.

Marti grabs his bag and gets up begrudgingly — his seat is quickly taken in his wake.

On the cold tile of the median, Marti gets as comfy as he can with his back leaned up against the farthest lounger down the center hall, plugging his phone and his portable charger into the USB ports at the base of it.

But because he’s Marti, which means he’s courteous, he feels obligated to ask the guy sitting with his back turned above him in the lounger if it’s okay he uses the outlet — technically they belong to his seat.

“Sorry, is it okay if I use this?”

Shit. Marti should have probably asked in English — should also have probably asked before plugging all his shit in — but the Italian just slips out. He doesn’t have too much time to worry about it, though, because to his pleasant surprise he gets an answer back in his native tongue:

“Yeah, no problem at all.” The guy turns around and glances down to the socket Marti has already occupied and then back up to him, almost like he’s waiting for a response even though most would assume this brief exchange between strangers is over. Simple call and response.

But despite their shared language, it takes a minute for the words to register at all. Because Marti is too fixated on the smile that delivers them. Warm and soft and cheery with a little head wiggle and sparkly, kind eyes hidden halfway under black curls.

It takes him off guard how cute he is. Then again, if Marti had a euro for every time he thought some random dude at the grocery store, in the bar, (at the airport), etc. was cute he’d be a millionaire.

The silence that follows is just a beat past awkward until Marti realizes this guy is still looking at him and he hasn’t said anything yet. He hopes his tongue-tied mind can form a word.

“Thanks,” Marti nods, his mouth suddenly dry, his heart rate kicking up half a beat. The guy flashes him another smile before turning back around.

Marti would be a liar if he said he could fully concentrate on the video he’s watching after that encounter — if he said he didn’t look through his peripherals every so often to stare at the back of this stranger’s head like a weirdo.

He’s noticed a sketchbook perched on his lap, leaning against his bent knees — lazy doodles covering the corner of the page Marti can see. He’s tempted to get up and stretch his legs to take a peek over his shoulder, but that requires gathering his things. And that’s too much work. Plus, according to the time, his flight should be boarding soon.

 _Should,_ being the critical word. Marti pulls up his boarding pass on his phone and notes the time: 22:02. Two minutes late, but that’s pretty normal. What _isn’t_ normal, now that he thinks about it, is the fact no other flight has boarded since he’s been here. The terminal continues to grow more crowded, and when two minutes late turns into twenty, Marti’s starting to get restless.

Just about everyone silences when the crack of the overhead loudspeaker starts — first in German, but Marti can tell it’s not good news by the collective groan. Then the English starts:

_“Good evening ladies and gentlemen, we’re sorry to inform you that all flights have been delayed due to the weather and will resume when flying conditions are safe. The forecast estimates the winter storm to continue through the night with clear skies starting tomorrow mid-morning. We apologize for any inconvenience, thank you.”_

Well, looks like Marti’s spending the night here. Not that it would be the first time, but he’s regretting swapping his seat for an outlet.

“Are you on the flight to Milan?” The guy in the lounger above turns around, and Marti looks up at him a little startled.

He tilts his head. “Er, no. To Rome.”

“Hm. Well, there’s enough room up here for two. You shouldn’t spend the night on the floor.” He scoots over a bit and pats the empty spot next to him on the black vinyl.

Room for two, sure. But it’ll be a bit snug. It’s worth sacrificing a little personal space for the comfort of the seat rather than the cold hard floor, though.

Marti decides to take him up on the offer. “Uh, yeah. Cool. Thanks.” He nods with a smile, his brain catching up to his body when he stands to gather his things — like he’s moving at double speed, unaware of their proximity until he actually sits.

His heart starts thumping in his ears until it’s just about the only thing he can hear. God, it’s just a _seat._ There's not enough space to not have their shoulders touch no matter how Marti tries to adjust himself; it doesn’t help to calm him down.

Marti puts his headphones back in and he couldn’t tell you what the last twenty minutes of his video are about. He’s too hyper-focused on every little breath, shift, proximity. On this guy’s _hands_ as they hold a pen that drags scratchy over sketchbook paper.

Marti notices him get distracted, too. Head tilting to see what Marti is watching on his phone. They make corner-eye contact a few times, and Marti has to reign in his breath, bite down a smile.

But whoever claims he’s boring can’t deny that he is bold.

Best case scenario: this is the love of his life. Worst case: if it all goes horribly wrong at least they’ll probably never see each other again.

“Do you want to watch, too?” Marti drags out the beginning of his question, removing his far earbud and offering it over with a genuine smile. “I’m Martino, by the way.”

There isn’t any hesitation. “Niccolò,” he smiles, flattening his legs out so his sketchbook drops into his lap. He moves to toss it into his unzipped bag by his feet. “Sure. Might as well. It’s going to be a long night.”

Marti isn’t a teenager — his heart shouldn’t be flying when their fingertips touch as Niccolò grabs the earbud from his hand. But it’s fast and loud and all in his head, occupying the room for logical thoughts or focus.

Niccolò doesn’t ask what they’re watching, but it only takes a few minutes for them both to realize concentrating is hard. There’s an undeniable current, at least on Marti’s end, that fuzzes the (little) space between them into a blur that’s hard to wade through. 

Call it attraction at its simplest, destiny at its grandest.

“So, Rome?” Niccolò breaks the silence, lifting and turning his head to look at Marti straight on, taking his earbud out. He must be the least patient of them both, and Marti is thankful for that.

He can’t help but smile in the tiniest triumph. Turning the volume down to almost inaudible, Marti lets the video on his phone keep playing. A subtle acknowledgment that they both don’t care about it.

“Yeah,” he nods, turning his body so he can look at Niccolò too — just a turn of the head might make their faces too close for comfort. “Just headed home.”

“Cool,” he nods. “That’s where I’m from, too. So why are you in Vienna?”

The mention of their shared home doesn’t go unnoticed. Something he files away in the back of his brain to bring up later, maybe, if all goes well. 

Marti chuckles, then groans. “Ugh, yeah. I’m a journalist, so I was here to cover a story. Not a very nice one, and all the leads dried up, so. I’m kind of going home empty-handed. Wasn’t the best trip.”

Niccolò raises his eyebrows, the corner of his lip following. He cocks his head to the side, playful like a puppy. “At least you get to top it off with a delayed flight.”

“Yeah,” Marti snorts, shaking his head. “Might as well, right?”

Niccolò laughs — keeps looking at Marti. Not in a piercing, demanding kind of way that demands a response, but more with a hint of curiosity. Like he can’t help it.

“So, Milan?” Marti mimics, raising his eyebrows, meeting Niccolò’s eyes.

God, the conversation isn’t flirty but their tone sure is. At least to Marti, and he hopes he isn’t reading any of this wrong. Hopes the current he feels isn’t lying to him.

Niccolò clicks his tongue. “Last stop of the tour,” he almost sing-songs, as if Marti is supposed to know what that means.

He just tilts his head and squints, a gesture to explain.

“I’m a pianist,” Niccolò nods, serious. “Been doing a concert and workshop tour at universities for the past two months.”

Marti’s eyes widen. “Oh!” It comes out more surprised than he wants. “I mean, that’s super cool. I can’t play an instrument to save my life.”

Niccolò smiles — this one a bit more devilish, crooked with a bitten lip. He looks down. “No worries, I can teach you.” And then back up, like he’s checking.

It’s innocent enough, but rather forward to Marti — he isn’t sure what to say to that, not that he could, anyway: his tongue swells in his mouth, limp and useless to form a response. It’s a step over the line of flirty tone to flirty content. Suddenly he’s imagining those artist's hands he was studying over his own, guiding his fingers on the keys. His whole face gets hot; he’d bet money it changed color with it.

He sees Niccolò’s cheeks go pink too at the lack of response, and when Marti fails to come up with something coy and clever and the perfect amount of flirty to say back, he flashes Marti a reserved, pressed smile and puts his earbud back in in defeat.

Shit. Marti at least makes sure to adjust his posture when he turns the volume back up, their shoulders back to touching. He tries to make it known he’s not afraid to be close — that he’s just an idiot who doesn’t know what to say, that Niccolò didn’t cross some line; he doesn’t know what else to do.

But the current hasn’t gone away. If anything, it’s a live wire now. Charged and staticky and ready to flare at any hint.

It’s just been a while since Marti’s done this.

With the news of the delayed flights, it takes about an hour for the gate to noticeably thin out. People probably spreading through the airport for more space or going to find a better place to spend the night. 

They both notice — but even with all the extra room to spread out now, they stay seated together on the lounger.

And when the hour clicks over into the next day and Niccolò’s breathing gets a little deeper, his body slouching and neck leaning back on the firm black vinyl, Marti can tell he’s getting tired. And he lets him lean into him a little more, let’s their legs bend and flush together in the small space while their eyes droop.

Marti’s more attuned to Niccolò’s soft giggles at the video than the video itself, angling his phone so he has the better view. He feels his shoulders bounce with, pressed against his own. Feels the air from his nose on his arm. The general warmth of their bodies and the moment.

The silence isn’t awkward anymore, and Marti wonders if it ever was. If it was just that current freezing time, reminding him that something is there.

At some point, there’s a soft pressure on his shoulder where Niccolò’s temple finds it. A softer snore to follow.

He’s asleep.

Marti tries hard not to smile — doesn’t know who he’s biting it down for. He can feel Niccolò’s curls tickle his neck, can smell his hair. 

Marti’s surprised it’s not overwhelming; instead, he just feels calm, like this is exactly what was supposed to happen. He gives up on the video completely, setting his phone on his thigh and leaning back. 

He closes his eyes. He just needs a minute. And he savors it.

 

 

• • •

 

 

Marti wakes up first, brain then body. Niccolò’s soft hair cushions his cheek, ticking his nostrils while Marti’s inhales and exhales shift the curls; he feels Niccolò’s warm face pressed right against his neck, his breath along the front of Marti’s throat giving him a rush of goosebumps.

He smiles without thinking — stays just like this for another minute in a selfish kind of enjoyment. But it’s not the easiest position on his spine — probably not on Niccolò’s either — so with all his might Marti tries to surreptitiously untangle them without waking Niccolò.

He fails though, with a grumble Marti feels vibrate on his shoulder.

Niccolò lifts his head and opens his eyes in a confused squint, rubbing them and yawning. He doesn’t even apologize for taking a nap on Marti once he’s taken in his surroundings, completely unashamed.

“Coffee, maybe?” Marti suggests with a little smile, eyes half open as he wipes the sleep out of one of them. He stretches his far arm out, extends his legs and tries to uncramp his body.

Niccolò nods. “Coffee,” he agrees through another yawn, ending it with a cute, lopsided smile and closed eyes before swinging his legs off the lounger to stand. His shirt is wrinkled and stretched out over his neck, dipping down to show more of his chest than it was designed to. His hair is wild, sticking up in every direction, curls defying gravity. 

Marti realizes he just gave him a once-over from top to bottom and back again — and it wasn’t subtle. When he meets Niccolò’s eyes, Niccolò giggles under his breath with a shake of his head.

“You know,” he starts, collecting his things while Marti stands and stretches again. “My dad used to make my sister and I play this game to entertain us at the airport. We’d all walk up and down the terminal and whoever was able to find the cheapest chocolate bar won.”

Marti snorts. “Okay. Won what?”

“Just won.”

“Are you suggesting…?”

“We do that with the coffee, yes,” Niccolò finishes his sentence, slinging his backpack over his shoulder. 

Marti checks the time on his phone. 3:16. “Do you think anything will even be open?”

“Guess we’ll find out,” Niccolò answers, already heading down the terminal in the direction of the main shopping and dining area. “We meet back here in twenty?” He does a cute spin, walking backward for a second and flashing Marti a cheesy grin.

Who just watches him go with a dumb smile on his face.

Marti’s been to this airport enough to know that in the opposite direction, at the end of the terminal around the corner by the employee bathrooms, there’s a vending machine tucked away with espresso shots for a euro.

He gets one, smug, and returns back to sit on the lounger in less than five minutes total — waiting for Niccolò before shooting it back.

It takes him a little longer, but Niccolò returns with a bigger coffee he somehow promises is cheaper.

“There’s no way you won,” he gloats, approaching Marti and taking a sip, eyeing him over the lid. “Tell me. How much was it?”

With a pursed smile, Marti finishes his shot and crinkles the paper cup. “One euro,” he says assuredly.

Niccolò impatiently waves his hand for Marti to scoot over a little more so he can sit down next to him. “Looks like I won, then.” He bumps their bent knees together, smushing their shoulders flush all the way down to the forearms.

“What? There’s no way,” Marti argues, still smiling. And now blushing. “How? I even went to my secret vending machine. That had to have cost you 4 euros, at least.”

Niccolò takes another self-satisfied sip and wiggles his head, purses his lips. He looks over to Marti with a dramatic pause before digging into his pocket and pulling out a McDonald’s punch card for a free coffee, all the holes punched.

Marti narrows his eyebrows, tries to look mad when really he’s just charmed. “You set me up,” he points out.

Niccolò just smiles and takes a drink, shimmying his shoulders in a little victory dance. “No, but really,” he says after a forced swallow. “If it makes you feel any better, yours was probably better than this garbage.” He grimaces.

“Ah,” Marti raises his eyebrows, tips his chin up while he drags out the victory sound. “So really, _I_ won,” he vaunts.

“No,” Niccolò is quick to correct, shaking his head. “You may have gotten the better coffee, but I still won the game according to the rules.”

Marti, feeling bold, nudges Niccolò’s shoulder. “Did you, though? I feel like you cheated.”

“No! The rules were whoever spent the least amount of money on a coffee was the winner —”

“No,” Martino drags out, interrupting him. “The rules were whoever found the _cheapest_ coffee was the winner. Mine was a euro, and if you had _paid,_ yours would have been at least —”

Niccolò nods along — wide smile bordering on a laugh like he fake agrees, like he’s listening intently but has a rebuttal ready — 

— but his growling stomach cuts Marti off.

There’s a semi-shocked pause before they both laugh.

“Maybe I should have gotten something to eat instead,” Niccolò concedes.

Marti’s already unzipping his bag by his feet. “I think I have something.”

Niccolò leans closer to peek over his shoulder and Marti feels the pressure on his side make his face hot, his hands numb like they forgot what they’re searching for. The downside of always being prepared for a trip is that his bag is full and messy; he parts past an extra change of clothes, chargers and adapters of every kind, his wallet and miscellaneous hygiene items —

When Niccolò swipes something from the open pouch. His passport.

“Let me just see here.” He holds it up in the air when Marti makes a move to snatch it back from him. “No one’s passport picture is _ever_ good —” He’s managed to flip it open, still held above his head where Marti has half-given up on reaching for it. “Oh.” His face falls in a soft way before it returns back to a smile. “Damn it, yours is actually really cute.”

Marti’s stomach flips with butterflies, all the way up to his throat. The fluttering tangles his vocal cords — he can’t remember how to string words together and has no idea what to say or do apart from literally _jolting_ to rifle through _Niccolò’s_ bag for revenge.

“What!” Niccolò shout-laughs as Marti reaches for the zipper of his backpack on the other side of him with a giggle, trying to push him back. “No! No no!”

Niccolò is a lot stronger than he looks under his baggy clothes — Marti can feel the muscles of his arms and chest hard against him; his head immediately starts to go fuzzy and distracted with all the touching.

Oh boy, maybe more touching than Marti anticipated. Niccolò’s hands push at his middle, find their place on his shoulders, make way to grab his hands. His arms reach around him, pushing into his ribs. It makes Marti useless.

He gives up and sits back, weirdly dizzy. “It’s only fair,” Marti pouts, a little out of breath, skin tingling everywhere. He forgot what he was even doing, what’s not fair.

“Fine,” Niccolò surrenders, letting go of Marti’s forearm when he senses he is no longer a threat. “But you have to _promise_ not to laugh.”

“Promise, promise,” Marti chuckles, holding his hands up as he watches Niccolò dig through his bag.

He hands it over with pouted, pursed lips and a big sigh through his nose.

Marti flips it open. “Oh my god.”

“No laughing!” Niccolò warns again, one finger up like he’s scolding a child.

“I just…” Marti trails, biting his lip so he can keep his promise. He glances from the passport to Niccolò’s face again and again, trying to piece it together. “How is it… so bad?” He deadpans honestly.

Niccolò seems like the kind of guy who can’t take an unflattering picture even if he tried. His face looks different from every angle, but each of those angles are his good ones. Handsome seems like too weak of a word. Casually looking at him without heart failure or genuine awe is almost impossible.

But this _picture._ Marti is _really_ trying to hold back a snort.

“I have bad allergies, okay?” Niccolò defends himself, slipping his passport delicately back out of Marti’s hands and folding it safely in his bag. “And they were flaring up that day.”

“I guess I have no choice but to believe you,” Marti smiles. “That picture can’t be anything other than an exception.” 

He’s getting more fearless with his compliments, but he can still feel his face flush and his heart surge after he says it.

This time, Niccolò’s the one who seems tongue-tied. His pink cheeks rise in a smile, he looks down — again a perfect angle. 

“Right,” Marti tries to recover, moving back towards his bag. “I think I have something to eat.”

He finds a half squished sandwich but ignores it, praying he’s stashed away something better he can offer Niccolò. But all he comes up with is a banana so bruised it’s more brown than yellow and a bag of chips that are probably the consistency of dust now.

“Um,” he hums under his breath, ashamedly pulling the offerings out and setting them on his lap. “Five-star selection, I know.”

Niccolò takes the banana. “It’s better than nothing,” he shrugs. “Thank you.”

Marti opts for the sandwich, picking out the ham and the cucumbers because the bread is too soppy. He digs his phone out again and offers an earbud back to Niccolò in the lull of their chewing.

It’s barely 4:00 now. Marti knows he’s got another five hours _at least_ on this lounger with Niccolò — a quick glance out the window confirms the winter storm is still in full force. 

And yet he already misses him — his easy company. Is already thinking about one of them boarding their flight before the other, maybe just thanking each other for passing the time without a promise to meet back up in their shared city. No numbers exchanged, no follows swapped, nothing. 

It’s hard to enjoy the time left once Marti’s gotten into this mindset.

But maybe between now and then he can pluck up the courage to be forthright. 

The coffees didn’t help much; Marti feels his eyelids get heavy despite the caffeine. And now that they’re sedentary with full stomachs, he notices Niccolò wrap his arms around himself, rub the exposed skin of his upper arms not covered by his short sleeves. A quick glance out of the corner of Marti’s eye reveals goosebumps.

Niccolò’s cold — this shouldn’t make his brain go _awh,_ but it does.

Marti kicks his bag down by his feet to get his attention. “I have a sweater in here if you want it.”

Niccolò takes a moment to ponder — almost looks like he wants to turn it down out of politeness — but ultimately gives in.

“Thanks,” he says warmly, smiling at Marti before bending over to reach for the backpack.

When he does, he forgets to remove his headphone first and rips Marti’s out with the movement.

“It’s okay,” Marti laughs, a response to Niccolò apologizing and cursing under his breath. He waits for him to pull out the sweater, pop his head and arms through the openings, and slouch back down next to him before resuming their position. 

It’s adorably big on him — slouching at the shoulders, the arms a bit too long. Marti hasn’t had a chance to wash it on his trip but he hasn’t worn it, either. It’s his backpack sweater, for emergencies only. He hopes it smells okay. 

Niccolò, with both of the earbuds now, attempts to put Marti’s back in his ear for him instead of just handing it over.

He giggles at the ridiculousness and lets him, feeling safe to steal a glance at Niccolò’s expression. His gaze wanders over the curves and angles of his face as he tries to stay still while Niccolò struggles to shove the little piece of plastic in his ear. 

His eyes are tired but sparkly, his tongue poking out the side of his mouth in cute concentration. Marti’s heart is hammering at the feeling of his finger resting on the top of his ear, but that’s to be expected by now.

A subjective perspective (his) might point out the majority of their interactions have just been excuses to touch each other. But Marti tries to keep a level head and remind himself this is a one-night thing, at best. However lovely the company may be. 

The earbud is now secured in the dip of Marti's ear, but Niccolò keeps his hand there, forefinger tracing the top curve and gently gliding over Marti’s helix piercing. 

He smiles softly, in almost a reminiscing sort of way. “This is nice. I’ve always wanted to get a piercing.”

Marti's face can’t be any other shade than red. He feels the heat in his cheeks travel to the lesser ventured peak of his forehead since it has nowhere else to go. 

Niccolò’s finger flips the ring back and forth, the sensation making Marti’s ears get hot along with the rest of him. The back of his neck gets tingly, all the way down his spine. He fights the urge to preen into the touch like a lazy cat. 

“It suits you,” Niccolò finishes, nodding curtly before the touch is lost. 

Without a pause, he slumps down — burying his chin into the neck of the sweater, folding the long sleeves over his hands — and cuddles into Marti’s side, laying his head on his shoulder. This time on purpose. 

Marti’s immediate reaction is to smile, and it starts soft and small and precious before it needs to bloom and end with a quiet laugh to himself. And of course, he indulges them both and rests his head on top of Niccolò’s. 

Just like before.

 

 

• • •

 

 

The loudspeakers wake Marti in a jolt, accidentally bumping Niccolò’s head with his shoulder. 

The terminal is loud and crowded again, the sun streams harshly through the windows — blue sky calm and bright.

A quick glance around reveals flights are back on. The screens for each gate have boarding and departure times to their destinations. 

_“This is the last call for passenger Niccolò Fares, flight 167 to Milan. Departing at 9:22. Please come to gate G3 to board immediately.”_

“Fuck,” Niccolò swears under his breath, bolting up and collecting his things in a frenzy, zipping them into his bag. He pats his pockets, scans the lounger for any loose items. 

He stands there and looks at Marti, panic and remorse evident. There is no time for a proper goodbye. 

“It was nice to meet you, Marti,” Niccolò half-whispers, leaning in quickly to give him a peck on the cheek, cradling his face with his free hand not holding his bag. 

It all lasts for about a second, and Marti sees him sprint down the terminal towards his gate with a brain that’s still half asleep. 

Each loud thud of his feet running on the tile sinks Marti’s heart until he can no longer hear him, see him. 

He’s not sure what’s worse, the fact that he’ll most likely never see Niccolò again or the fact that there’s still a small opportunity they could run into each other in their big but shared city a year from now, browsing through antiques at Porta Portese. The chance is slim but still possible. It all feels just out of his reach.

But maybe he wasn’t wrong when he gave the far end of the scale to destiny. His phone buzzes in his lap. 

**Niccolò:**  
shit. i still have your sweater

Marti sighs so relieved he could almost cry. God, he blows everything out of proportion. But he’s glad he didn’t misread the signs. Of _course_ Niccolò, at some point, managed to snatch his phone while he slept. His smile is big when he types out a reply, his heart even bigger. 

**Martino:**  
you managed to steal my sweater and my number  
but i guess that just means we’ll have to see each other again  
so you can give it back

 **Niccolò:**  
i may have managed to steal your phone while you were asleep  
but the sweater was an accident!

 **Martino:**  
sure ;)

 **Niccolò:**  
i swear!

 **Martino:**  
uh huh

 **Niccolò:**  
i’ll be back in rome next week  
i can give it back to you then  
over dinner maybe?

 **Martino:**  
it’s a date :)

 **Niccolò:**  
<3

**Author's Note:**

> say hi to me on [tumblr!](u)


End file.
